


Composure

by tastewithouttalent



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Desk Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Making Out, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quiet Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Munakata is in the middle of a report when the sound of a knock jolts his concentration apart." Munakata gets interrupted and is persuaded to take a break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Composure

Munakata is in the middle of a report when the sound of a knock jolts his concentration apart. He allows himself a moment to sigh, to let the first prickle of irritation rush over his skin and fade off into composure; then he lifts his head, straightens his arms over the desk, and when he says, “Come in,” his voice is as cool and steady as it ought to be.

Awashima pushes the door open, takes a half-step inside and pivots to face him, her movements clean and crisp and deliberate. Usually they grant her an air of competency; today all they do is draw attention to the stiff line of her mouth, the sharp edge in her expression that speaks to her own irritation.

“You have a visitor.” Her voice is cool and steady, her gaze so utterly flat it screams of her dislike of playing messenger more than words could achieve.

Munakata nods slightly, inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Who is it?”

Awashima’s mouth moves. It’s a faint motion, just a fractional tightening of her jaw and a twitch of her lips, but Munakata’s eyebrows still go up in shock before she says, in tones of perfect, forced composure, “Mikoto Suoh.”

Awashima won’t see any reaction. Munakata’s arms are steady against the table, his features composed and under control; his mouth doesn’t shift, he doesn’t blink fast, he doesn’t even swallow hard. But there’s a rush of adrenaline hot under his skin, tingling into his fingertips and making his uniform suddenly too hot, too constricting, and when he says “Let him in,” he can feel the struggle it costs to keep his throat steady, to level the words into distant uniformity instead of trembling with sudden emotion.

Awashima looks back out of the room, nods to an unseen figure, and she moves out of the doorframe just as Mikoto steps forward, hunched as if he needs to duck to clear the top edge of the doorway. In comparison to Awashima’s crisp professionalism he looks even more casual than usual, wearing his responsibility as a King with no trace of consciousness of its weight across his shoulders. He glances at Munakata across the desk, his mouth curves easy into a smile, and when he turns back to shut the door Munakata knows he’s going to lock it even before he hears the click of the mechanism sliding into place.

Munakata doesn’t move. His hands are maintaining the deception that he is relaxed, that his entire body isn’t humming in response to Mikoto’s presence, that his eyes aren’t catching at the red hair soft against the other man’s collar, that his throat isn’t drawing tight and anxious with want. Mikoto’s barely even looking at him; having locked the door in a clear indication of his plans, he’s now all but ignoring Munakata, strolling across the room like it’s his office and not the other man’s, pausing at the window as if he’s unaware of the way the sunlight streaming through the glass sets his hair afire with illumination.

“I’m busy,” Munakata finally says by way of greeting. He turns back to his desk, fixes his eyes on the paper and pretends he’s seeing anything at all but the heartbeat of red in the far blur of his peripheral vision. When he reaches to pull a sheet of paper pointlessly closer he can feel the adrenaline pounding through his fingers, making his hand and the paper both tremble until he sets the report down, lies his hand flat to hide the motion. “What did you need?”

“You’re always busy,” Mikoto says, but Munakata’s words have pulled him around, turned his feet to face the other man, and Munakata can see him drawing closer before he forces his gaze away so Mikoto won’t see him staring. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to come to our  _headquarters_ ,” Munakata says. His voice is still obeying, barely, when he forces it down into the low register he can consistently control. “I do have an apartment.”

“You’re never at home.” Mikoto’s words are agonizingly close now, almost exactly over Munakata’s head, and there’s a brush of contact against the back of the other man’s neck, like Mikoto is drawing his fingertips just against the dark hair that brushes the top of Munakata’s collar without quite making skin-to-skin contact. “Do you ever even sleep?”

“Enough,” Munakata says more sharply than he intended. He reaches up to adjust his glasses even though they don’t need it, even though he feels like his every motion is jerky with that pounding adrenaline. “Do you?”

“The couch at Homra is very comfortable.” This time Mikoto’s touch skims against Munakata’s cheek, startles him into a reflexive flinch even before the redhead closes his fingertips on the edge of the other’s glasses to ease them off his face.

“I need those,” Munakata protests, but he doesn’t reach for them, even when Mikoto sets them back on the desk well within his reach.

“You weren’t reading,” Mikoto points out, and this time the heat is so sharp that Munakata is certain it’s visible, if only as a faint tinge over the unfamiliar vulnerability of his uncovered features. “You can still see me, right?”

Munakata looks up. He can’t help it, not when everything in him wants to drink in the sight of Mikoto  _here_ , in  _front_  of him, not when Mikoto is demanding his attention with every almost-laugh under his words and every audible smile. Munakata’s vision is slightly blurred without the correction of the lenses, too unfocused for reading, but Mikoto’s face is still clear, the lopsided twist of his smile and the bright white of his teeth.

“You don’t have to just look.” Mikoto’s lips form around the words, and Munakata realizes he’s been staring, his eyes trying to bring the shape of the other man’s lips into focus. “You’re busy, we should probably make the most of this time, right?”

Munakata’s throat closes around a sound. It’s a little bit of a wail, mostly a growl of frustration, because  _he’s_  the one in the uniform, this is  _his_  office, how is it that Mikoto can be so much more in control than he is even here? But he’s pushing back from the desk, and when he reaches out Mikoto’s fingers are closing around his wrist, dragging him to his feet before Munakata can think the motion through, and then he doesn’t need to  _see_  Mikoto’s mouth because he can  _feel_  it, pressed in hot and radiant against his own. The sound he makes this time is less a growl and more a whimper, and when Mikoto turns him sideways Munakata leans back against his desk without a thought for the papers still spread across it.

“Reisi,” Mikoto says, purring over his name like it’s a secret. “You’re shaking.”

“I didn’t expect you to come here,” Munakata says, dragging his fingers over Mikoto’s shirt so he can make a fist of the cloth. It’s much softer than the harsh lines of his own jacket, thin enough that it doesn’t resist his fingers at all when he tightens them on the fabric, and the pull makes Mikoto laugh and lean in closer to him.

“You wanted to see me.” Mikoto’s hands are sliding down the lines of Munakata’s uniform coat, smoothing the fabric against the other man’s chest while his fingers ease the buttons free. “I wanted to see you too.”

“You have no patience at all,” Munakata points out, although Mikoto’s touch is still smooth and deliberate while his own hands are pushing up under the other’s white t-shirt with all the impatience he’s pinning on the other. “We could have made plans after work.”

“It’s never after work for you,” Mikoto says. He’s leaning in, so close Munakata is tipping his head up in search of a kiss, but his mouth brushes over the other man’s jawline instead of his mouth. Munakata tips his head, shuts his eyes to focus his attention on the warm-wet heat of Mikoto’s lips against his pulse. He can feel the other man’s words vibrating under his skin. “Or for me,” he admits, and opens his mouth to sigh heat against Munakata’s skin so the warmth catches under the other man’s collar.

Munakata doesn’t bother trying for a denial. He’s got his hands flat against the heat of Mikoto’s skin, Mikoto’s fingers are pushing his jacket open and aside, and anyway it’s true, the only time he ever gets to see Mikoto like this is when the redhead does exactly what he has done and forces a gap in Munakata’s rigid routine.

“I’m busy,” he says, but he’s sliding his legs apart so Mikoto can step in closer, so Munakata can hook one knee around the other’s hip. Mikoto leans in farther and Munakata lets his weight fall back entirely on the support of the desk behind him as the other man’s fingers curl in against his waist, slide down over the crisp lines of his white shirt. Munakata can feel the heat of that friction through both layers of fabric, flushing hot so his clothes feel too heavy even in the cool space.

Mikoto chuckles, touches his tongue flash-hot against Munakata’s throat. “Yeah, you are,” he agrees. One hand lingers at Munakata’s waist, the other slides down, follows the line of the other man’s belt to the buckle at the front. “Busy taking a break.”

“We can’t,” Munakata says, but the words fall flat and shaky even in his own ears, and he’s starting to tremble, the tension under his skin pulling too tight for him to hold back into rationality anymore. “It’s the middle of the day, I’m at work.”

Mikoto slides his belt free of the buckle, hooks his fingers around the top of Munakata’s pants so he can push the button free with one thumb. “The door’s locked.”

“I don’t have a spare uniform,” Munakata finally musters as a last line of defense against the wave of breathless adrenaline washing away his resistance. Mikoto slides his zipper down, brushes his fingers in against the last layer of fabric between his skin and Munakata’s, and it’s not enough and too much at the same time. Munakata’s hand drops to Mikoto’s wrist, closes hard on the flexing tendons under the other man’s skin, and Mikoto hesitates with his fingers still just barely in contact. They are both still for a moment; Munakata doesn’t straighten the tilt of his head, and Mikoto doesn’t lift his mouth, and Munakata’s fingers flex too tight but he can’t decide if he wants to pull the other man’s hand in closer or shove him away.

Mikoto is the one to finally move, stretches his fingers out farther to push the tips of his fingers in against Munakata’s length through his clothes. “We’ll be careful,” he says, as if it’s a simple solution, but Munakata is giving in before he even hears the words, he’s pulling in at Mikoto’s hand to drag the other’s touch in hard against him. Mikoto’s fingers curl in to press against the shape of him and Munakata lets go, brings his hand up to dig into the dark of Mikoto’s hair and pull him in closer to his neck.

It’s easy to let the self-consciousness go, easier than it should be and easier than Munakata wishes it was. Mikoto’s not even got his clothes entirely off, and his own are still fully intact but for the one hand Munakata still has pressed against his hip, and Munakata can see feel all his usual restraint disintegrating as if it’s ice and Mikoto’s touch is fire in truth. When he turns his head it’s so he can press his mouth to Mikoto’s hair, not to encourage the other man to move, and when Mikoto’s palm presses in harder against him Munakata rocks up against the friction instead of pulling away.

“Do you want me to just jerk you off?” Mikoto asks. His lips drag over Munakata’s skin, his tongue flicks out to press against the other’s neck, and when he shifts his weight the change of angle pushes him against the inside of Munakata’s leg so the other can feel him hard through his jeans. “It’ll be easier to keep you clean, probably, but --”

“No,” Munakata says, too fast for the tendrils of doubt to latch onto his throat. “No, I don’t.”

Mikoto doesn’t even hesitate. Munakata can feel him smile as he slides his hand up and away, angles his fingers to come down inside Munakata’s clothes instead of over them. “Oh good.” The hand at Munakata’s hip comes around to press against his spine, so for a moment he’s held in place between Mikoto’s hands while the redhead steps back to move around his knee. “I’ve always fantasized about having you over this desk.”

When Mikoto’s hand pushes at the small of his back Munakata moves with the impulse, shifts his weight back over his feet so he can turn around, lets his hold on Mikoto’s waist and shoulder go in favor of lying his palms flat and bracing against the polished surface of the desk. His cheeks are flushing, any pretense of cool distance he had is long gone, but he’s smiling involuntarily, he can’t repress the pleasure forcing its way across his mouth. His blurry vision catches on the white of the papers he was looking at; he can’t even remember what they were about, now, with the cool of the wood under his fingers and the heat of Mikoto’s hands working his clothes down off his hips. The air is chill against his overheated skin, counterpoint to the rush of blood through his veins, and then Mikoto’s hands settle against his hips and the other man rocks in against him. He’s still got his clothes on, Munakata can feel the catch of his jeans on his skin, but Mikoto’s pushing in hard enough that Munakata’s weight shifts forward, that he can feel the promise of heat through the fabric. Munakata catches a breath, turns his head and starts to reach for the drawer, but Mikoto’s hand pulls away from his hip to catch at his wrist, shoves his hand back flat to the table while the other man leans in close against his spine.

“Keep your hands clean,” he says, voice going so low Munakata can feel it settle down into his veins. “My clothes can take a lot more abuse without showing it than yours can.”

Munakata flexes his fingers on the table, but he doesn’t lift his hand, and after a moment he shifts, locks his elbows out so his sleeves fall in clean lines from shoulder to wrist. He’s shaking in anticipation, his skin is burning with want of Mikoto’s touch, but his voice is still relatively steady when he says “Top drawer on the right.”

He has to shut his eyes when Mikoto lets go and moves away; there’s the sound of objects shifting, clear sign that the order in that drawer is being destroyed under the careless shove of Mikoto’s fingers, and Munakata can’t bring himself to care enough about the future to even be irritated. He just waits, feeling the tension draw tight and humming in his shoulders and elbows and wrists while he listens to Mikoto moving behind him, to the not-quite-telltale sounds of motion, and imagines he can hear the sticky catch of liquid on Mikoto’s fingers.

“You’ll need to be quiet too,” Mikoto observes. His fingers touch against the back of Munakata’s hair, thread through the strands until his skin catches at the back of the other man’s neck. His words are an observation, not a warning, and his touch is a connection rather than a push. Munakata lets a breath go, slow and deliberately, and doesn’t catch another even when Mikoto’s slick fingers touch against him. The push is steady, a slow increase in pressure until Munakata’s instinctive resistance gives way to let Mikoto’s fingers slide into him. Munakata’s throat doesn’t go tense, his hands don’t curl to dig for traction on the table; he keeps his eyes shut, focuses in on the touch at his neck and the familiar push of Mikoto’s fingers against him, and there’s no hint of so much as a whimper of encouragement from his throat.

“You have your guards right outside the door, right?” Mikoto asks, pitching his voice lower even though their conversation has never been loud enough to be heard as anything but incoherent murmurs from the hallway.

“They’re not guards,” Munakata replies, keeping his words level and smooth even as Mikoto starts to move his hand, picks a slow pace for the thrust of his fingers as Munakata’s pulse comes faster and his blood hums warmer.

“Your subordinates, then,” Mikoto corrects. Munakata can hear his smile without glancing back over his shoulder to actually see the lopsided tolerance of the expression.

“Yes.” Mikoto’s fingers come in a little deeper, quickly enough that Munakata has to pause to catch his breath before he goes on. “Awashima is in the hallway.”

“Okay,” Mikoto says. “And you can stay quiet?”

“I said --” Munakata starts, and Mikoto thrusts his fingers in as far as he can, spreads them apart so the pressure rushes out over the other’s skin in a shiver of reaction. Munakata’s mouth falls open, his breath stops dead, but there’s no sound from his throat at all.

“Okay,” the other man says again, drawing his fingers back and sending a flush of shuddering heat in the wake of his touch. Munakata doesn’t take another inhale until Mikoto’s hand slides free, and even then it pulls into static in his throat more than air. “I believe you.”

Munakata takes another breath, more effective this time, shifts his weight back over his feet while Mikoto’s clothing rustles with intention. Munakata can just hear the sound of the other’s breathing coming faster than usual from behind him, is just starting to steady his own into calm when Mikoto’s hands come back against his hips. Munakata can feel the liquid still clinging to Mikoto’s fingertips in the way they slide slick over his skin as the other man steps in close behind him.

Mikoto doesn’t ask if he’s ready. Instead he pauses, lets the anticipation draw so long Munakata’s breathing starts to jar out-of-rhythm again to give the other man plenty of opportunity to voice a protest. For his part Munakata stays silent but for the heartbeat thudding hard in his ears and the anxious pace of his inhales, and after a minute Mikoto huffs an exhale that sounds like a smile and starts to thrust forward. Heat washes out over Munakata’s skin, secondhand response flaring out fromt the first burst of sensation, and he lets his lungful of air go with active effort to keep it silent in his throat.

“Reisi,” Mikoto says, his voice so intimately soft it nearly does what physical sensation couldn’t and wins a vocal reaction from the other. “You’re amazing.”

Munakata’s throat tightens. Mikoto is just coming all the way forward, pressing in so his jeans are flat against Munakata’s skin, and Munakata knows where this goes next, he knows the routine better than Mikoto does himself. He shifts his weight to one hand, reaches down with the other, and is just catching the loose edge of his shirt and jacket to hold them up out of the way when Mikoto’s fingers brush against his length. Munakata maintains his balance, if only because of the firm hold Mikoto has on his hip, but he can feel the flood of warmth that makes him twitch against Mikoto’s tightening grip, the slick spill of pre-come that lubricates Mikoto’s thumb so it can slide smooth against the flushed skin.

Munakata’s arm is starting to shake from the effort of holding himself upright and stable against the climbing sensation pouring through him. Mikoto’s fingers are shifting against him, more exploratory than stroking as yet, and he hasn’t even started thrusting properly yet, but that just means Munakata can feel the texture of denim, the edge of a zipper against his skin bleeding over into the stretch of Mikoto inside him, the pressure rapidly easing over into want in reaction to those gentle fingers against him.

“Mikoto.” His voice is a whisper, carried on an exhale more than deliberate vocalization, and even then it shakes, stretches fragile and tenuous as his remaining self-control. “ _Please_.”

The fingers tighten around him, Mikoto strokes up over him in one smooth motion, and Munakata has to tip his head up to cut off the moan that tries to pull free from his throat. Mikoto keeps going, dragging heat out of Munakata’s veins with his fingers alone, and it’s spilling over into pleasure as fast as thought but it’s not enough, this static pressure isn’t  _enough_.

“ _Mikoto_ ,” he says again, and it’s louder this time, catching on the edges of normal volume. When he rocks back it’s off-time with Mikoto’s strokes but the hand at his hip goes tight, he can hear the catch of the other’s breath at the unexpected movement. “ _Fuck_  me.”

Mikoto’s laugh is almost unvoiced, more a catch in his breathing than a sound entire, but he starts moving too. Munakata sighs in relief even before Mikoto comes forward again and shatters the sound into a gasp instead, and then his mental focus melts under the ripple of heat in his blood and he has to drop his head forward and focus all of his remaining attention on keeping his breathing quiet.

Munakata’s not sure what it is that dissolves his resistance so rapidly. It might be the way Mikoto’s fingers are curling against him, drawing sensation out over his skin while the rhythm of his hips sends surges of response through his blood until he forgets to breathe. It might be that he’s trying to focus on keeping his clothes out of the way and maintaining his relative quiet, and that that doesn’t leave enough willpower to offer even token repression of the waves of sensation washing higher with every of Mikoto’s movements. But he suspects it’s mostly the sound of Mikoto’s breathing, the way it jumps higher and sketchy every time Munakata huffs a sigh that is not quite a moan and the way that every exhale is shaped around the sound of Munakata’s name, like Mikoto is forming the word on his lips but not quite letting it escape his throat. Either way, Munakata can feel but not fight the rush of heat up his spine, sparking almost-numb into his fingertips; all he can manage is to push in hard against his shirt to keep it out of the way and offer a choked, “ _Mikoto_ ” as a warning before everything goes still and quiet in anticipation, and then the wave crashes over him.

He’s trembling his way back to equilibrium when Mikoto’s hand tightens on his hip and he starts to thrust with a too-fast pace. It’s almost too much, with the heat of orgasm under Munakata’s skin sliding up towards a burn with each movement of the other’s hips, but he’s only just starting to gasp in true excess when Mikoto takes a deep, steadying breath, and Munakata knows what that means even before the other goes still and shivering against him.

They are both quiet for a moment after; Munakata can hear Mikoto’s breathing rushing hard in his throat, and his own is not much better, but that’s  _all_  he can hear. There’s no sound of a knock or voices outside the door, which is a good sign that they at least managed the requirement for quiet. Mikoto pulls away a moment later, slow and careful, and Munakata shifts his weight and straightens from the desk as Mikoto pulls his clothes back into place. He doesn’t see the hand coming until Mikoto’s fingers are at his temples, sliding his glasses back into place so the world comes back into crystal-clear focus. The touch feathers through his hair, streaking afterimage warmth across his scalp, and then Mikoto is pulling away, shifting back to stand by the wall while Munakata straightens his shirt and pulls his clothes back into place with as much speed as he can manage. It’s not as bad as he feared; his shirt seems to be perfectly unruffled, and once they’re back up around his hips the worst of the wrinkles fall out of his slacks. He’s just looking down to rebutton his jacket when arms come around him, a body presses in warm against his back while fingers slide the fabric from his hold.

“I’ll do it,” Mikoto says against the back of his ear, the words so warm they leave a flush in their wake. “I did take it off you, after all.”

“You took everything off me,” Munakata points out, though he doesn’t try to retrieve control. “You left the rest of it to me.”

“I would have made a mess of it,” Mikoto observes. His mouth pulls tight, settles into the brush of a kiss against the back of Munakata’s ear. “This I can manage.”

“At least you can manage something,” Munakata says, but it comes out gentler than he intended, more affectionate than teasing. Mikoto chuckles against his shoulder as he settles the last button into place, as his fingers linger at Munakata’s waist a moment longer than they strictly need to. Then he’s moving away, stepping sideways, and when Munakata turns to face him they’re both Kings again.

“Anything else?” Munakata asks, all the chill of his position back in his voice, and Mikoto’s smile has the wry twist of Homra under it instead of his own soft warmth.

“Nope.” He turns, saunters towards the door with the unhurried pace that characterizes so many of his movements.

Munakata isn’t expecting him to turn back around. Mikoto’s fingers catch at the lock, unfasten the bolt so carefully there’s no sound at all. Munakata is still standing behind his desk, his spine straight and his face composed, all evidence of heat hidden safely under his uniform. But then Mikoto pauses, fingers closed on the handle in expectation of departure, and as he pulls the door open he glances back, just once. His smile is lopsided, dragging high on the side only Munakata can see, and for just a moment, it startles a genuine smile out of the other man too.

The warmth of that expression lingers on Munakata’s lips even after the door swings shut again.


End file.
